


Arizona

by galamiel



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:10:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galamiel/pseuds/galamiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smokes when they're groundside, finds a quiet, secluded spot where she can light her cigarettes and chain smoke until her heart stops beating so fast and her nerves melt away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arizona

She smokes when they're groundside, finds a quiet, secluded spot where she can light her cigarettes and chain smoke until her heart stops beating so fast and her nerves melt away. There's ashtrays and smoking zones aboard the  _Normandy_  and many of the crew smoke as well, but she abstains from smoking anywhere that doesn't have at least a little bit of grass and a tree to sit under. She says it's because she doesn't want to show the crew her growing addiction and indulgence, but he knows that's a lie, just like she lies about how much alcohol has passed her lips every day since Cerberus brought her back (but maybe she doesn't actually know, because Aria keeps her secrets for her and bluffs to her face, a hawk's eye constantly watching the Alliance commander and a silver tongue carefully plastering the cracks in her armor. All with some ulterior motive, he's sure.)

They're on the strip and it's not her usual spot, but the presidium is too far even by rapid transit and while he's here to watch her in lieu of Aria, it's far easier to drag her away from the bar at the casino than the bar in her own home. She's only half dressed and her tanktop rides up as she rests on her haunches at the base of the nearest tree, showing a sliver of warm brown skin. Her hands tremble as she shoves a cigarette in her mouth and tries to light it.

He settles down next to her, doesn't wrap an arm around her, and she doesn't move any closer to him. She didn't manage to put on shoes before he dragged her out of the apartment and her toes dig into the dirt under her as she takes a drag from her cigarette, the yellowing grass flattening under her restless feet.

"It reminds me of Earth, you know," she says abruptly, her voice atonal, noncommittal. It's never more difficult to understand her than when her voice is completely flat and void of any inflection and he feels a brief burst of irritability at the fact that humans evolved without subvocals.

"The strip?" he asks, mandibles flaring slightly as he regards the fluorescent lights and the crowds of people, drunk and laughing and dressed in the newest fashions. He tries to imagine an entire planet made up of places like this.

"No," she says, flicking ash from her cigarette. "The smoke. The trees. The grass." She tilts her head back and rests it against the tree. "Back when I was a kid, I mean. Not... not now, with the..." she trails off, swallowing, unwilling to say the words that have fallen so easily, so angrily, from her lips every day since the attack. The reapers.

He reaches out and touches her knee and she gratefully wraps her free hand around one of his talons, gives him a forced smile.

"There was this park," she says. "Well, I mean, there were a lot of parks. But this one in particular..." she shakes her head. "All of the rich kids used to go there to fuck when they snuck out at night, and, Christ, if that didn't make them the easiest damn targets. Nothin' simpler than lifting a wallet from some kid's discarded pants."

"We used to smoke while waiting for them to show up," she says, taking another drag. "It was always warm, even at night. And there were real trees in the park. Real trees and grass, even though it was dry most of the time. I think one of the gardeners tried to keep up some flowers, too, but with the water rationing they died out pretty quickly." She proffers her free hand, laces their fingers together, and he presses his mouthplates to the back of her hand. This time she rewards him with a real smile. "Jesus, Vakarian, you don't know how nice real trees were, not after they cloned and brought back the Shasta ground sloth. Joshua trees started popping up  _everywhere_  after that, damn near as annoying as cactuses," her brow furrows. "Cacti. I think. I can never get that right."

"Joshua trees?" he asks, flaring one mandible.

" _Yucca brevifolia_ ," she announces to him seriously. "Remember those trees on Rannoch? The spiky lookin' stunted ones?" he nods his head. "Looks a little like those. Actually," she looks thoughtful, "Rannoch looks kinda like where I grew up. A hell of a lot more water on Rannoch, though. Shit if there was ever even a fraction as much as that, even with the water recycling plants and dams."

"You never told me where you grew up," he presses. She rarely talks about her life on Earth, refused to even acknowledge the fact that she had a life before the military for  _months_  after they met that man from the gang she ran with when she was a kid. To be fair, he hasn't exactly been an open book with her either, but he's eager to learn what he can of her childhood.

She sighs and leans against him, head warm against his shoulder. Her cigarette is almost forgotten. She glances at her bare feet, then up at him, and he takes the cigarette from her fingers and crushes it under his shod foot.

"Arizona," she says the name like it's a holy word, exhales through her nose. "It's a wasteland outside the big cities, nothing but desert and mined-out caves for miles in any direction--" she tightens her fingers against his, amends, "probably entirely a wasteland now. But it was beautiful. Especially the sunsets. The entire sky painted in oranges and reds and violets, not a cloud to be seen, and then Luna shines bright and all the stars up there..." she closes her eyes. "I used to go out to the city limits and sneak over the wall and past the city watch, risked bein' eaten by goddamn Smilodons, just to see 'em, clear and beautiful without the city lights blocking them out."

She grows quiet, moves even closer to him to soak up some of his warmth. The temperature in the strip is regulated, just like it is in the rest of the Citadel, but it feels cold under the shade of the tree, the darkness of the night cycle only just kept at bay by the strip's lights.

She's silent for so long that he thinks she's gone to sleep and he's considering picking her up and taking her back to the apartment when she suddenly speaks again, voice low.

"That's what I used to think heaven was. Lots of real trees to smoke under, soft grass to lay down and fuck on, and open sky everywhere, with billions of stars constantly visible in the sky." She huffs out a laugh. "Look at me now. Going to planets where I can smoke under any tree I want, provided there  _are_  trees, living amidst the stars. I would've thought this was heaven on earth, a dream come true, when I was a little kid."

"It isn't?" he asks.

"It can't be," she says. She untangles her hand from his and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes. Her voice is husky and wet. "Not when there're people dying out there, telling me I'm their only hope." She laughs, bitter and angry. "Me. They're putting their trust in a woman who never even got a fucking education, other than an education in  _fucking_. A street rat who didn't even own a pair of shoes until the Alliance got ahold of her."

"Shepard," he's unsure of what to say, of how to comfort her. He grabs her wrists and gently pulls her hands away from her face, leans in and presses his forehead against hers. "Shepard," he says again, warm breath ghosting across her face.

"I never wanted this, Garrus," she tells him. Her eyes are open and staring into his. "Never wanted to chase rogue spectres or take out mindless bug-people or be trying to help build some unknown super weapon that may or may not save all of our lives."

"You're the only one who can," he tells her. "And you're not alone." He laces their fingers together again, five fingers and three meshing better than he ever thought they could. "I've always got your six, Shepard. Besides," his tone turns light as he teases her. "You might need to use that education in fucking sooner or later."

She laughs, but her voice is still hollow, her shoulders still tense. "What was it you said, Vakarian?" she asks. "Reach and flexibility?"

"Yeah," he says. "I don't know about fucking on the grass, though."

"Mmm," she hums. "I think I've got an apartment around here somewhere. Might have a bed or three in it. I dunno, though. I think my boyfriend might've forgotten to lock up."

He chuckles, a rumble deep in his chest, and pulls her against him, wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly. The tension in her shoulders starts to lessen as she leans into him. He presses his mouthplates against the crown of her head, nuzzles into her soft hair.

"Out of curiosity," he asks tentatively. "What  _did_  you want?"

She speaks so quietly he can barely hear her above the noise from the strip.

"I wanted a home."


End file.
